


Greener

by steviatea



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Episode: s05e04 Fifty-One, Fast Food, Gen, Humor, Marijuana, POV Alternating, Recreational Drug Use, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27113612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steviatea/pseuds/steviatea
Summary: Jesse and Lydia get high together.
Relationships: Jesse Pinkman & Lydia Rodarte-Quayle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Greener

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline-wise, this takes place right after Jesse and Lydia have met, during the episode _Fifty-One._

There are around nine hundred miles between Houston and Albuquerque, give or take, and Jesse’s not particularly enthusiastic about the fourteen-hour drive back. This is especially the case when Jesse doesn’t have anything to bring back with him to Mr. White; he can already hear the aggravated tone in which his cooking partner is bound to use.

He could kind of say that Mr. White treated him better these days than he used to — at least he didn’t tend to call Jesse a _junkie_ or an _idiot_ quite as much these days. Still, there was something to dread about having to talk to the man about anything, particularly when it came to the lack of methylamine. Hell, even imagining the guy being disappointed in him makes Jesse feel a degree of apprehension that undoubtedly raises his heart rate more than he’d like; it’s stupid, he thinks to himself, that he still craves any level of validation from the asshole. It’s stupid, but it’s still how he feels nevertheless, and that kind of anxiety isn’t something he’s very well-gifted in shaking off.

He hasn’t quite left the warehouse yet; instead of taking off immediately, he’s standing just outside of the building, taking in the sound of the crickets and allowing the gentle night breeze to brush him. The sun has long before dipped beneath the trees and buildings, and the only light remaining is that of the stars above and the more nearby _electric_ variety — security lights buzz quietly and persistently as they keep the place illuminated in an orange-yellow hue.

As far as he can tell, he’s got to be alone out here. He really can’t imagine that the woman he’d met, considering her position of power in the company, would have any kind of security lingering around at this hour. That reasoning, should Jesse’s layman-level of guessing prove true, gives him one advantage: he can light up without anybody noticing. He ended up getting a really good deal with this guy Badger introduced him to, a really chill dealer who’d grown his own weed. Jesse had brought some of what he’d purchased along with him for the express purpose of easing his anxiety – cannabis indica. In the true nature of preparedness, he had rolled up a few joints for himself that he could smoke up when taking a break from driving.

Taking one of the joints out of a baggy in his pocket, and soon after retrieving his lighter, Jesse gives a quick glance around the vicinity to confirm he’s alone. It’s simple paranoia about being caught, though Jesse could reason there was _also_ some lingering paranoia about being in a completely unfamiliar location.

He misses Andrea and Brock, misses being in the comfort of his own home. Sure, he isn’t exactly exiled or anything, but he still longs for his basic creature comforts, and driving home is going to be lonely and boring as shit.

There doesn’t seem to be anyone else out here — thank goodness. The lady he met in the warehouse, she probably took extra measures to ensure that nobody else would be around, on account of how illegal it is to sell Methylamine to a couple of meth cooks.

That works out fine for Jesse. Flicking the lighter in his hand, it takes a couple of tries for the old thing to to give him a flame. He sets the joint between his teeth, lighting it up. Taking a drag, he’s very well used to the feeling of the hot air expanding in his lungs, and he allows it to linger as long as he can hold his breath. As he exhales, he feels his nerves beginning to ease up…

...Well, that is, until he hears the clicking of high heels approaching. Jesse feels his heart jump in his chest when he turns to see the woman he’d met in the warehouse walking out the door, standing mere feet away from him. His eyes widen as the woman meets his gaze, and then glances at the joint in his hands. 

“What are still you doing here?” She asks rather stiffly, her arms wrapped around her defensively. Her voice is quiet and low, and there’s a look in her eyes that suggests discomfort and perhaps even fear. “It’s not safe to take the methylamine back with you. I don’t understand why you’re still here”

Jesse has absolutely no idea how to react, feeling his own anxiety jump up over being caught smoking weed. Maybe that’s ironic, considering that this woman is just as much of a criminal as he is, but she seems so professional and uptight. Were she anyone else other than someone in the drug trade, Jesse might say that she looks like the type who might freak out about the joint and call the cops. Instead, she’s just staring at him like he’s the sketchiest guy on Earth.

That doesn’t make Jesse feel any less awkward. He blinks back at the lady, clearing his throat before replying with an uneasy little, “Uh, nothing, really, just – just, y’know, taking a smoke break before I hit the road.”

The woman, small and increasingly uncomfortable with Jesse’s presence, gestures to the smoke wafting through the air. “That’s it? You’re – you’re just smoking in my parking lot, not doing anything else?”

Jesse winces; if he were a dog, he’d be dipping his head down and slowly wagging his tail in a guilty manner. “Uh, yeah,” he replies, looking away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to trespass, or whatever. I can go.” He doesn’t quite make the move to walk away, apprehensively watching the warehouse lady in order to gauge her reaction. He fully expects her to tell him off, but instead, she just sighs, placing a hand on her forehead and shaking her head.

“No, it’s… it’s _fine,_ I guess,” she replies, eyes closed and jaw tense. “You just scared me. As long as you’re not planning on mugging me, or pushing me against the wall and assaulting me, or pulling out a gun and shooting me in the head, I suppose it’s fine that you’re here.”

She gives a long stare back at Jesse, as if trying to gauge _him_ , and it’s suddenly as if the fate of her entire life hangs within his hands. She’s like a deer in headlights, frozen from discomfort. Jesse cannot, for the life of him, figure out why she’d be afraid of him. 

Nevertheless, he’s quick to shake his head, his free hand facing toward her in a defensive gesture. “Whoa, holy shit, no. That’s kinda fucked up that you’d even come up with that. I’m not even gonna touch you.” He has no idea what kind of men this woman has run into, or dealt with, but Jesse decides to elaborate immediately in hopes of reassuring her. “I promise, all I’m doing is smoking some weed. I’m just — I’m just getting high, is all. That’s it. I swear.”

She’s still apprehensive, but she nods her head, looking at the ground. There’s a slight shine on the parking lot pavement, giving the indication that it had likely rained earlier. Taking a deep breath, her breathing audibly shaky, she replies, “That’s… That’s okay, then. I don’t really have any reason to be bothered by that, considering we’re both already breaking numerous laws, anyhow, with what we just attempted to do. Forgive me for being paranoid, but I can never be too cautious, given recent circumstances.”

Jesse smiles slightly, relieved by her lack of judgment. If it were Mr. White, he’d probably take the joint right out of his grasp and stomp it out. “I hear you,” Jesse replies, taking a drag and holding his breath. Out of politeness, he holds out the joint as an offering. “Thanks for not kicking me out over the joint. You, _uh..._ You want some?”

She stares at the offered joint as if she’s just been offered something entirely foreign, like Jesse just offered her a moon rock or something. “Really? I know you’re not smoking a cigarette. It smells different. Are you trying to give me some kind of _drug?”_

“It’s just weed.” Jesse nods, and as he replies, smoke curls from his mouth and rises in plumes. “I mean, obviously, I’m not gonna force it on you, but you can have it if you want some. You look super stressed.”

“Well, you’re right about me being stressed, but...” Furrowing her eyebrows, she hesitates, pointing at the joint and biting at her lower lip. “What does it do? I’ve heard of marijuana, of course, but I never bothered to try it.”

With a shrug of his shoulders, Jesse replies, “I mean, for me personally, it helps me a lot with my anxiety and stress, shit like that. It’s indica, which means it’s, like, more of a depressant than a stimulant like sativa is. It’s good shit.” Pausing, he adds, “It’s cool if you’re not interested, obviously.”

Lydia looks apprehensive as she watches the smoke rise from the joint. “You said it helps with anxiety?”

“Yep,” Jesse says with a nod, still holding the joint out to her and waiting to see if she’ll take it. He really doesn’t mind sharing; hell, it’s been a long time since he’s shared a proper joint with anyone. He’s too busy with Walter recently to get to hang out with his friends.

Color him surprised when Lydia actually reaches over to grab the joint, taking it between her small, slender fingers to examine it further with a degree of curiosity that Jesse’s never seen anyone direct toward a joint. It’s kind of amusing. “I’ve never smoked anything before,” she tells him nervously, glancing between the joint and Jesse. “Is this going to hurt when I breathe it in?”

“Nah, it doesn’t really, uh, _hurt._ It might make you cough, though, so be ready for that.”

Nodding in an apparent acceptance of the consequences, Lydia takes a drag of the joint for herself, breathing in way more than Jesse would normally dare — it’s like she’s using an inhaler, or something. Within mere seconds, she nearly doubles over coughing, the sound echoing through the empty parking lot. _Oh, jesus._ The poor thing. Jesse can’t help but wince out of empathy for her struggle to breathe; he remembers how hard he coughed the first time he smoked. He had probably been, like, fifteen or so, getting baked in Combo’s room with Badger, Pete, and Combo himself.

Now, weed is something he relies on to keep him clean from the hard shit. It’s his rock, in a lot of ways — that said, he still feels for this lady; she’s so small, and her smoke-free lungs weren’t at all accustomed to taking such a long toke.

“That was awful,” she rasps once she’s regained enough air volume to speak without coughing. She makes a visibly disgusted face as she passes the lit joint back to Jesse. “Oh, my god. My throat feels so dry. How can you stand doing that to your lungs?”

Jesse gladly accepts his joint, replying, “I’m just used to it, is all. Plus, it also helps to take less deep breaths, I guess.” He shoots the woman an apologetic look before taking a hit. Shortly after, he adds, “So, _uh,_ what’s your name, anyway? I don’t think you mentioned.”

“Lydia,” she replies, coughing into the sleeve of her grey suit jacket. “Rodarte-Quayle. I’m the head of Logistics at Madrigal. I oversee numerous aspects of Madrigal’s cargo, including the, _um…_ the barrels, and stuff. Normally, there aren’t any trackers hidden on them. I don’t know how that happened.” Squinting, Lydia takes a deep breath, tilting her head at Jesse. She continues to speak in the form of asking, “Who, um… Who are you? I know Mike sent you, but you had a terribly informal introduction. Unless, of course, _the guy_ is your official title?”

That question actually causes Jesse to laugh out loud. Maybe it’s just the weed that’s easing him up that much, but he’s already feeling so happy to have a conversation with another person. His social life has been severely damaged by, like, _all_ of the secrets he’s had to keep from others. Shaking his head, Jesse is sure to reply, “Nah, my name’s Jesse. My, uh, _meth cook_ name is Cap’N Cook.”

Lydia looks at him with a frown and furrowed eyebrows, like he just said something completely unintelligible. “I don’t know what to say about that, or how to react to that information,” she says, glancing around the parking lot. After a few passing moments of silence, she adds, in relevance to the hit she just took, “Oh, this feels much different from what I expected. This is actually kind of nice.”

“Yeah?” Jesse eyes Lydia almost playfully. His intentions aren’t flirtatious by any means, but instead they’re of a friendly nature. “You want some more?”

“God, no,” Lydia says immediately, grimacing. “I’m already feeling the effects of what I inhaled. That coughing was enough.” Rubbing her face with her hands, she adds in a soft voice, “My eyes feel so strange, and I’m… I don’t know, it’s hard to describe, but I feel like it’s already cut my anxiety levels down by fifty percent, at least. That’s… that’s a lot, considering that I have a clinically severe case of Generalized Anxiety Disorder.”

“I hear that,” Jesse replies. “I got mad anxiety, too, yo. That shit is the worst.”

Lydia nods, but she still has a look in her eyes that suggests she’s a little bit more anxious than she lets on. “It certainly doesn’t help that someone put a tracker on one of my barrels. The whole reason Mike hasn’t _killed_ me yet is because I told him that I’d provide more methylamine.”

 _“Killed?”_ Jesse repeats, puzzled and concerned. With the way Lydia’s talking, it sounds like she’s a teenage girl referring to her parents that are _totally gonna kill her,_ or whatever. Whenever Mike’s name is mentioned, however, there must be a degree of seriousness behind the words. Jesse decides to push further. “You mean he was planning on killing you for real?”

Lydia nods, swallowing nervously. “Yes, _Captain Cook._ For real. I… I don’t want to think about that right now. I should be getting home to my daughter.” She drags her hands over her face. “And how am I supposed to do that when I’m _high?_ This is, by far, the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

“I can give you a ride home, if you want,” Jesse offers.

Lydia’s features contort to the most judgmental expression Jesse’s ever seen. “No offense, but I’m not interested in getting in a car crash tonight. I’ll just… I don’t know.” Taking a deep breath, she hesitates. “How safe of a driver are you? I don’t know anything about this stuff.”

“I’ve driven safely while high on worse shit,” Jesse tells her, though it doesn’t particularly seem to reassure Lydia, going by the look on her face. “It’s safer than driving drunk. Trust me, I’ll drive safely. I’ll even go, like, super slow just for you.”

It’ll mean a longer amount of time between being in Texas and being at home, but Jesse’s already developed a feeling of kinship toward Lydia. That’s how lonely he is. Finishing the joint up, he idly watches as Lydia’s hands fidget. She’s quiet, staring off into the distance with her eyebrows furrowed.

“Okay, yeah,” she replies after another few moments of silence, “Yeah, I’ll take that ride home, I guess. Just… just promise that you’ll be careful when you drive. Swear on it, Jesse. Swear on your life.”

“I swear on my whole entire life,” Jesse promises Lydia, his hands held out toward her, palms open and facing her. “I’ll get you back home safe to your daughter.”

* * *

It takes Lydia's mind a moment to catch up to the fact that she has to buckle herself in, once they’re in the van that Jesse’s driven over to the warehouse; buckling herself in is usually the first thing she would do upon entering any vehicle. Yet, the effects of the marijuana she decided to try out are in full force; she’s so much more relaxed than she normally would be at any given moment. Pulling the seat belt tight over her body, she watches the way Jesse’s hands move as he turns the key, starting the van.

She tries not to panic over the fact that someone’s put a tracker on the barrel she erased from the inventory. She tries even harder not to think about the DEA coming back to her warehouse. She tries, but all she can do is think about it; the only difference is that she’s slightly less panicky, but the thoughts still linger anyhow.

The sound of the engine, while not particularly loud and evidently a part of the process of starting the van, still manages to startle Lydia.

“You okay?” Jesse asks with furrowed eyebrows. She’s not used to men being polite like this without expecting anything in return — well, with the exception of Gustavo, who’d always been upfront about the platonic nature of their relationship. God, Lydia missed him so much; she still feels the ache of his loss on a regular basis.

Tugging at her seatbelt until it locks in place, Lydia eyes Jesse carefully as he begins to pull the van out of the spot it was parked in, driving back toward the exit. If only she were better at gauging others’ intentions. “I hope you’re not expecting this to be a _date_ of any sort,” Lydia tells him, upfront about her disinterest in him. “I can pay you for the ride, but I have no interest in doing anything _inappropriate_ with you.”

“What?” Jesse asks, bewildered. When he continues, he both looks and sounds offended. “I’m not expecting you to. What kinda _douchebag_ do I look like?”

Lydia frowns, feeling a sudden and overwhelming wave of embarrassment hit her. It’s difficult to keep a professional resolve in this state of mind. “Sorry. I don’t mean to offend, it’s just — _men,_ in general, they tend to make me incredibly uncomfortable. I haven’t had the best experiences with men, as a general statement.”

The offended look on Jesse’s face softens to something more understanding and compassionate. Though, he keeps his eyes on the road instead of looking in Lydia’s direction. “Nah, it’s… it’s cool. I’m not offended, or anything. I mean, I kinda get it. I don’t really get along with most guys either, to be honest.”

“Really?” Lydia asks.

The only man that she had ever really been close to was a wealthy, quiet drug distributor who had severe trauma to such a degree that he seldom showed strong emotion. Gus had been the only man she’d ever really admired. All of the other men in her life are put into one of two categories: completely boring, or absolutely terrifying.

It’s strange, she doesn’t know where Jesse would end up. He’s intimidating in the way that every man is, at least — taller than her, and no doubt physically capable of overpowering her, were he the sort to have that motive. Yet, his motives are much more difficult to figure out, other than the apparent ones: _obtaining methylamine and smoking weed in a parking lot._

“Yeah, really,” Jesse responds, “I get my ass kicked by other men, like, all the time. Men can be total dicks, especially any degree of power, like assholes in the DEA.”

“Turn right,” Lydia instructs Jesse as they reach a stop sign at the end of the road, guiding him toward the direction of her home. “You’re right about that. Men in positions of power are usually pretty good at abusing their positions. The DEA is terrifying.”

“A guy from the DEA beat the shit out of me once,” Jesse tells her, taking a turn as directed. Fulfilling his earlier promise, he is indeed driving quite slowly; that’s something reassuring about his character. “Hurt like a bitch, I’ll say that. I ended up in the hospital.”

Lydia feels a sudden jolt of fear hit her — a strong one, one that’s incredibly nauseating. Perhaps smoking really wasn’t so great for her anxiety; hearing about horrific things that men in the DEA isn’t going to help her.

“I’m sorry that happened, but I don’t want to think about something so unsettling when I’m in a state like this,” Lydia tells him, her voice cracking audibly – something she didn’t expect to hear. She doesn’t mean to sound so upset, but it’s hard to hide her fear of the DEA after what just happened earlier. “The DEA scares me enough as it is.”

“Sorry,” Jesse apologizes, wincing. “We can talk about something else.”

“Is talking necessary to you?” Lydia asks, not intending to sound impolite, but it’s awfully hard to focus on what he’s saying. She’s too busy imagining swarms of towering, aggressive DEA agents busting into her office; such mental imagery could likely be described as the exact opposite of a fantasy, intrusive and unpleasant. “Could you on the radio, maybe?”

“Sure. What kinda music do you like?”

Lydia’s fighting through some serious mental fog to find an answer to that question. It’s as if she’s suddenly forgotten what genres she likes. It’s hard to tell how time’s passing, but she must be taking far too long to answer, given Jesse’s eventual speaking up.

“Lydia?”

Lydia has to stop herself from gnawing at the inside of her cheek just to answer; her eyes drift to Jesse and she replies, “I don’t know, um… classical would be good. Do you want to stop somewhere to eat while we’re out? I’ll pay for the food, of course.”

When Jesse turns the radio on, Lydia’s once again startled by the noise of some incredibly loud rock music. Jesse hurriedly turns the music down, flipping through channels until they eventually land on a classical music station. _Ave Maria_ is playing and Lydia can feel her nerves easing somewhat.

Well, aside from her intense hunger.

“Totally,” Jesse replies, appearing to perk up quite a bit. “That’d be awesome. You gettin’ the munchies, too?”

 _“Munchies,”_ Lydia repeats, testing the word on her tongue. “That sounds like a word a child would use.”

“It’s stoner slang for getting hungry when you’re blazed,” Jesse informs Lydia. “It’s a real thing. Did you know that weed, like, speeds up your metabolism opens up your lungs, too? It’s got a lotta medical benefits with, like, pain relief, too.”

“I have noticed less of a tension headache than normal,” Lydia muses quietly. “Not just that, but I’m craving food I never eat. There’s a Burger King on the way to my house. That’s not the sort of place I’d usually go, but given that not much else is going to be open at this hour, we don’t have too many options. We’ll stop there and use the drive-through.”

“You got it, Lydia.”

Lydia smiles, pleased with how compliant Jesse is with her orders. “I wish all men were as attentive as you are. You’d make a great assistant.”

Jesse laughs under his breath. “Aw, thanks. Would you hire me if I decided to run away from Albuquerque and stop makin’ meth?”

Lydia breathes hard out of her nose, the closest thing she’s done to laughing in quite some time. “I’d think about it, but why would you want to go from a job where you’re already making millions to an office assistant job with much lower wages? That just sounds completely illogical to me.”

“Mostly’ cause my cooking partner scares the shit outta me,” Jesse admits. “I used to be so enthusiastic about cooking. Now, it’s just, like… I don’t know, it’s not really my passion anymore. I’d rather be making art or something that isn’t destructive.”

“Destructive?” Lydia asks, tilting her head to the side and frowning.

Jesse sounds so listless when he explains. “Too many people have gotten hurt ‘cause of me and my partner,” he says.

“How noble,” Lydia replies, distracted by her lookout for the way home. “You’re going to take left on the next street. Burger King should be coming up soon.”

When they arrive at the restaurant, there’s surprisingly a line of cars there. Lydia squints at the people in front of them as Jesse pulls into the drive through.

“They better hurry up,” she says, her words coming out much slower and smoother than they normally would. She’s so accustomed to being absolutely wound-up and shaky from anxiety, but instead she only feels a bit impatient, if not mildly disdainful toward the complete strangers in front of them. “I don’t want to keep my daughter waiting for much longer.”

“You gonna order something for her?” Jesse asks, leaning with his elbow against his driver’s seat door. “Like, I don’t know, a kids meal, or whatever?”

“That’s a good idea,” Lydia says, nodding. “I’ll get her some chicken nuggets, or something. It’s not exactly as healthy as the food I’d prepare for her, but the kids' meals come with toys. Kiira _loves_ toys.”

She can see Jesse beginning to crack a grin. “Kids _do_ tend to love toys. How old’s your daughter?”

This isn’t the type of conversation she’d expect to have with a fellow criminal. It feels more like some variety of _water cooler talk_ with employees at Madrigal. It’s kind of underwhelming, but maybe underwhelming is what Lydia needs right now. “Six. Do you have children?”

“Sort of,” Jesse replies. “My girlfriend has a son who’s about eight — his name is Brock. He’s a really sweet kid. I do feel kinda, _like,_ parental toward him, even if I’m not technically his dad.”

“You don’t need to be biologically related to your child to be a parent,” Lydia tells Jesse as he pulls the van forward. Just one more car ahead of them, and she’ll have those fries she’s inexplicably craving. “I adopted my daughter, and it doesn’t make me any less of a mother because of that.”

There’s a smile on Jesse’s face when he hears Lydia’s words. “Really? That’s so cool that you did that. Sounds like you’re giving her a better life than what she might’ve had.”

Lydia nods her head, smiling softly at the thought of Kiira’s precious little face. “I’ve always wanted a daughter, especially one that I could give a better childhood than what I had growing up. Adopting her wasn’t even a question once I met her at the adoption center. She was only three years old, and she ran to me right away, wanting me to hold her. I can’t even tell you how much I cried when she first called me _mommy._ ”

“That’s so sweet. God, I want to be a parent so bad,” Jesse says.

“You should become one, then,” Lydia tells him. “It sounds like Brock needs a father. You could be that for him.”

“I could, yeah.”

Jesse drives up to the portion of the drive-through where orders are placed, rolling down the window.

“Welcome to Burger King, how can I help you?” A voice filters in from the speaker.

This is very much unlike what Lydia would normally do, were she hungry; she typically opts for healthy vegetables or a salad of some kind, at an establishment that undoubtedly serves chamomile tea. When she answers, she leans over Jesse slightly to answer, “I’ll take a chicken nugget kids meal and a large order of fries.”

“Excuse me, ma’am?” The Burger King employee replies. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Lydia’s heart drops. She has a quiet voice most of the time, and she really isn’t fond of expending effort to repeat herself when such repetition is not only embarrassing but completely inconvenient for her. She’s an executive at Madrigal Electromotive, for Christ sake. She shouldn’t have to repeat herself.

“She said she wants a kids meal with nuggets and some large fries,” Jesse tells the worker. “And I’ll have a cheeseburger and some fries.”

“Any drinks?” The employee asks.

“I’ll just have water,” Lydia says, louder this time. She’d be able to make some tea once she got home, provided she had the energy once she returned.

“I’ll have a sprite,” Jesse says.

Once they make it to the payment window, Lydia retrieves her wallet, taking her card out and passing it to Jesse. Jesse hands her card to the underpaid adolescent Burger King worker. Moments later, it’s handed back with a receipt. They pull up to the final window. _Gymnopédie No. 1_ is playing on the radio. Lydia waits with the greatest anticipation she’s ever felt toward receiving some fast food fries.

The woman working there hands over their orders. Finally, her _fries._

 _“_ Thanks for paying,” Jesse says to her.

“Don’t mention it. It’s probably for the best if you don’t drive while eating,” Lydia tells him. “Considering the fact that you’ve smoked. Could you park somewhere?”

“Already on it,” Jesse replies, pulling into a parking spot.

Lydia’s mind often reaches levels of overactivity to the point where she eventually hits a metaphorical _anxiety wall,_ so to speak. In any normal, sober circumstance, she’d likely be in the throes of a panic attack over the whole situation with somebody putting trackers on her barrels in the warehouse. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that’s the case now, but she’s also thinking about how delicious these french fries are.

“These are incredible,” Lydia says to Jesse. “I can’t believe how good fast food is. I don’t think I’ve ever even eaten anything from Burger King before.”

“Wait, seriously?” Jesse asks. “Your parents never buy you any of those kids meals growin’ up?”

“I didn’t exactly _have_ parents,” Lydia answers, feeling somewhat offended by the implication that she had such a childhood. “I had a mother that abandoned me when I was little. I grew up in a group home for the rest of my childhood. I ate whatever they made us eat, and food from any restaurant was out of the question.” She shoves a few fries into her mouth, finding a strange sort of comfort in how incredibly greasy they were.

Jesse winces. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, like, assume anything when it’s obviously none of my business. Sorry you had a childhood like that. I can’t even imagine.”

“Thank you,” Lydia replies softly, taking a sip of the icy water. It’s cold enough to irritate her teeth. She much prefers hot beverages. “I’d rather not go into the depths of my childhood, but it was definitely horrible.”

“Glad you’re outta that place now,” Jesse says, “and that you’re giving your kid a better childhood. That’s a seriously admirable thing to do.”

“I appreciate hearing that, Jesse. I wish everyone in the meth empire was as nice as you.”

Jesse nods his head, popping a single french fry in his mouth and replying, “If everyone in the meth empire was just a little bit nicer and less murderous, the drug world would be a better place.”

Lydia actually laughs at such an absurd statement. She hasn’t laughed so hard in ages. Maybe just the substance she’s on — _no,_ scratch that, it’s _definitely_ the substance she’s on. She wouldn’t laugh like this under a normal circumstance; she’s been criticized before for her lack of a sense of humor. Jesse, though — he _amuses_ her.

When their impromptu dinner is over and Jesse reaches Lydia’s street, Lydia points to her house.

“That’s my house,” she tells him, rather matter-of-factly.

“All right,” Jesse says, pulling into her driveway. “Do you need any help with anything?”

“I don’t.” Stepping out of the van, Lydia clutches a kids meal bag in one hand and her purse in the other. “I left you some money in the empty cup holder, as thanks for the ride. I would’ve had to pay a taxi driver anyways, so consider it compensation for your time and help, and the, um… You know, the marijuana.”

“Did it help?”

Lydia nods her head. “Surprisingly, it did help with my anxiety. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“No problem,” Jesse says. “So, uh, I guess I’ll maybe see you around sometime?”

“Maybe,” Lydia replies, closing the door to the van.

Jesse glances out toward the road ahead, then looks back to Lydia. “Well, uh, it was nice to meet you, Lydia. I’d better hit the road. Good luck with the, _uh,_ barrels and stuff.”

“I’ll need that good luck. Make sure you drive responsibly,” Lydia tells Jesse, not bothering to comment on the barrels, before she turns around, making her way toward her front door. She’ll deal with that anxiety later; right now, she’s just glad to be home.


End file.
